


full circle

by ikvros



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: 101 kinks list, Angst, Car Sex, Everything else is pretty much the same, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships, just like...a lot of suffering among all parties, oh reader is part of the rfa but seven isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 12:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16326431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikvros/pseuds/ikvros
Summary: It’s all too natural to close the shrinking distance, to begin what has begun a hundred times before — and to finally end it, too.





	full circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepyfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepyfox/gifts).



> [sleepyfoxspirit](http://sleepyfoxspirit.tumblr.com/) asked for "#47 with 7!" on the [101 kinks list](https://fenrirgodspeed.tumblr.com/post/179028680507/101-kinks-send-me-a-number-and-a-ship-and-ill) which is: car sex. i delivered, except it's 3k words of angst and suffering instead of a hot lil drabble. 
> 
> this also happens to be my first mysme fic and the first fic i've ever written in second person. be gentle and kind to me. thank you for reading; kudos and comments are always appreciated more than you know.

Seven’s goodbyes are hungriest whenever they might be for good.

He always says it’s for good, but you know him well enough to discern between when it’s empty and when he’s _scared_. Sometimes when he kisses you, you pretend not to feel the teeth—or the desperation, burning white-hot just beneath his skin as you drag him down toward the bed. It’s always punishing, hard and fast and full of something that feels a lot like grief. He fucks the same way he lives: like there’s no room for love.

This time, it’s not Seven’s bed your knees are digging into, but the unyielding surfaces of his car’s center console and door panel, respectively. He’s parked on the street outside your house, where he was meant to drop you off, rain pounding against the windows. You don’t hear anything except your own heartbeat in your ears, the breaths between mouths meeting and parting.

* * *

You’d taken a cab to the café he’d wanted to meet at—had intended to take one home, too, but he’d offered to drive you. It’s rare for Seven to spend time with you outside your visits to his bunker, so the request had been perplexing until you realized that sex was exactly what he wanted to avoid; that when he said he wanted to talk he _meant_ it. But he hadn’t talked about anything significant—not at dinner, at least, though his anxious fidgeting throughout rubbed your own nerves raw. Still, from experience, you know it’s better to wait until he’s ready. Pushing him has only ever reinforced the wall between you.

The drive is silent. You figure that Seven is someone who usually enjoys the radio, but he’s either too agitated to want it on or too distracted to notice its absence. And when he pulls up to your house, he stares straight ahead, the fact that he puts the car in park the only indication that he doesn’t yet want you to go inside. Patience thinning, your mouth parts to speak—and that’s when he says it, voice hard and raw:

“I’m leaving.”

You don’t ask for the details. You never do, because Seven won’t give them to you. It’s for your own safety, and for his, too. It’s nothing to write home about; he leaves all the time on missions of varying length and risk for the agency. You can tell when the stakes are higher by the number of marks he leaves on your skin ( _you count them while he’s gone_ ).

He always tells you afterward that this is the last time; that he’s not going to call you when he’s back. You always tell yourself that you’re not going to pick up, either, because you want for more than loving a ghost. When your cell vibrates, you try to convince yourself that the unsaved number blinking up at you is a telemarketer and not one of Seven’s burner phones. You let it ring four times. You always pick up on the last one.

It’s something of a ritual, one that has never been broken. Until today.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” Your body seems to discover the answer to that in the pregnant pause that follows, stomach fluttering with unease as he finally, finally looks at you. His eyes have always been the most honest thing about him, haunted and lonely.

“I’m not coming back.”

* * *

You never wear button-ups to Seven’s. You deduce that his job must use up all of his patience, that he has none left for getting you naked. After several pieces of your most delicate, expensive lingerie are ripped beyond repair, you learn to go over in nothing but a large t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants—something that had made him growl in approval the first time he’d discovered you bare beneath.

Today, you decided on something more appropriate for an outing. Something billowy with an intricate collar and small pearl buttons all the way down; one of your favorites, and perfect for dinner at the café. Seven had complimented it shyly then, not used to seeing you prettied up. You had blushed, not used to his gentle admiration.

There is nothing gentle about the way he rips it open now, the way he claims your neck as you grind down against his cock, hard through his jeans. It makes you angry, the way he disregards your belongings the same way he does your personhood, like they’re things to be swept aside or destroyed completely in his quest for escape. Every _plink_ of a popped button makes your nails dig harder into his skin, but when his mouth replaces the cup of your bra, tongue hot and wet against your nipple, all you can do is moan.

* * *

“To Seoul?” You’re confused. You’re used to Seven saying things like _this can’t happen again_ and _you won’t hear from me anymore._ You try to process the words sitting between you now, but they don’t make any sense; don’t have a place in the lexicon of untruths you know so well.

“To Korea,” Seven corrects flatly. “I’m leaving the agency.”

It takes you all of three seconds to realize that leaving the agency is not something that he has permission to do, that he’s as good as dead if they catch up to him. A million feelings and questions hit you at once, and you feel the panic settle in, feel the car closing in around you. You want to ask him where he’s going, but he won’t tell you, and it’s better that you don’t know.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” he continues, reading your thoughts. “I’ve been careful not to tell you anything incriminating or breach the relationship clause of my contract. It’s common for agents to...do what we do.” A faint pink tinge that’s out of place colors the tops of his cheeks. “As far as they’d ever know upon investigation, I’ve even been paying you. I’ve made steady withdrawals out of my account to support that in case, but they’d never expend the resources to question and dispose of someone who in all likelihood, knows nothing. It helps that you have connections through your charity work. People like Jumin Han would notice something amiss about a cover-up. A tie like that is a liability. You’ll likely never be bothered.”

Your stomach lurches.

“And if they did suspect something more?” Despite the possibility of being tortured for information and... _disposed of,_ it’s something else that triggers the nausea rolling through you.

“If they felt inclined to look closely, there would be proof,” Seven says easily. “I’ve been wiring all of the money into a bank account in your name.”

You blanch.

_“What?”_

Seven seems prepared for this reaction, pushing his ridiculous glasses up his nose. His face is smooth, impassive.

“You don’t have to take it; I figured you wouldn’t. I have the account information, but you can shred it if you want. You can withdraw the money and burn it in your fireplace for all I care. The record of its existence just needs to be there, for your guaranteed safety.”

His explanation is hardly relieving. Your head is still brimming with shock and thinly-veiled anger, spinning as you try to process all of the information that’s been thrown at you in the tiny, cramped space of this idling sports car. You try not to feel your heart shattering to pieces in your chest, try not to gasp at the ache. Your vision blurs, and an expression you’ve never seen before flashes across Seven’s face.

“When—” You choke out, pushing the feelings of betrayal back long enough to confront the most demanding emotion coursing through you. “When are you leaving?”

* * *

Seven’s never as concerned with his own clothes, but you push at the hem of his shirt until it becomes an obstacle between his mouth and your skin, and he rips it over his head, elbow bumping into the fogged window, sending his glasses clattering _somewhere._  Your hands are immediately drawn to his chest, so hot and pleasant against your clammy palms, and his own move to your ass, kissing you again while he allows you to explore.

There’s something uniquely enticing about his physique, about the strong, corded sinew in his arms as they wrap around you; the endearing layer of pudge over what must be well-trained abdominal muscles. He’s so solid, so warm. _Safe._  He’d laugh at that word, but it’s all that comes to mind. You’re convinced that nothing else in the world could reach you as long as you’re in his arms.

It is funny, then, that he’s the source of your suffering.

You pull him closer, rip your mouth away to lick and suck at his neck, to taste him and burn it into your memory. He groans, hips jerking up into you, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass beneath your bunched-up skirt.

“Need you,” he pants. “Need to feel you.”

It’s raw and unmeasured, like he’s coming apart at the seams. You think that maybe he is. You are, too.

* * *

The first patter of rain sounds against the windshield, but you don’t hear it. You just hear the words Seven utters next, over and over and over again.

“Early tomorrow morning.” He means late tonight, really, as you doubt he’ll be sleeping. He cards a hand through his unruly vermillion hair. “I just—fuck, I wasn’t even gonna see you again, I had everything prepared to drop in your mail before I left. But I couldn’t. I felt like I’d die if I didn’t get to see you one last time.”

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until a wracking sob vibrates in your chest, silent with grief but round and full enough to hurt. His face crumples, reaching toward you, but you swat away the pity. It’s infuriating, his ability to make it seem like he cares while in the process of abandoning you, having the audacity to tell you his original plan of doing so without warning.

“Why now?” You demand, wiping angrily at your traitorous tears. You’d always known that this was a temporary arrangement; he’d made it clear early on that a relationship was out of the question. You had been okay with that when his hands gripped you bruisingly, while he was buried to the hilt inside you, while he was making you see stars different from the glow in the dark ones stuck to his ceiling.

In the days and weeks between, love had bloomed hopelessly anyway.

“I can’t—” He starts, and then stops himself.

“What does it matter if you tell me?” You laugh mirthlessly. “You’re breaking all the rules now anyway, aren’t you?”

He’s silent for a second, and his eyes flutter closed as he weighs his options, seems to roll the truth around in his mouth. You honestly don’t expect him to tell you anything other than to back off; he never has before, and he owes you nothing despite how you feel. But he wavers, and the way his voice trembles is sobering.

“It’s a long story.” It doesn’t sound dismissive, just tentative. Hope licks at your stomach. He shouldn’t tell you, but he feels guilty enough to do so anyway. You know that he’ll say no if you offer to let him come inside, so you settle back against your seat, let the gentle wash of rain soothe you along with the knowledge that you don’t have to let go. Not yet.

“I have time, if you do.”

* * *

It’s something of a hassle to undo Seven’s belt; even with the seat pushed all the way back, the steering wheel juts into the small of your back painfully when you maneuver off of the upper half of his lap. He seems too preoccupied with kissing you to help, biting at your lips and touching you everywhere he can reach.

You both moan when you finally pull his cock out of his briefs and stroke it slowly, the weight and shape of it familiar in your hand. It’s warmer than the rest of him, filled with blood and pulsing wildy every time your hand moves down over the base, an expert in all things related to Seven’s pleasure. It’s going too fast; you’re not as prepared to take him as you normally are, but neither of you can wait any longer.

You move to straddle him properly, and his fingers hook into the crotch of your pretty little underwear, pulling them aside. It feels lewd. Through your desire you feel shame and guilt and an infinite sadness that threatens to swallow you whole. You hide from it in the crook of Seven’s neck as you lower yourself onto his cock, hissing at the painful, minimally lubricated stretch.

You feel him fighting not to buck up into you while you seat yourself at your own pace, a couple inches at a time. He trembles breathily beneath you, and there’s sweat between your skin, and the car is filled with the thick scent of your joining.

* * *

He tells you that he was sixteen when he joined the agency, but that he’d been preparing to do so as young as fourteen. He tells you about his shit parents and his twin brother, slighter and frailer and more prone to illness than Seven, unable to go out into the world. He tells you that he’d learned how to hack as a way out for them both; that he’d had to leave him behind in order to join the agency but that he’d meant come back for him once he’d made enough money.

No one told him that he could never go back.

When he tried to gather the intel to at least send him funds, he discovered that no one had seen or heard from his brother in three years. He’d been looking for him ever since.

Seven pauses for a while after that, and you wonder if that’s the end of the story.

“So...you found him? Does...is that why you’re leaving the agency? To be with him?”

You decide that you can forgive him if that’s the case. If he’s risking his life for love more pure and infinitely stronger than any he many harbor for you, you’re happy to be sacrificed. But Seven smiles, a grimace, really, despite how delicate it is. His eyes are looking somewhere far away.

“No. I found out that he’s dead.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You want to say that you’re sorry, but just the thought feels empty, feels wrong. It’s not your place to be sorry that his brother’s dead, not even your place to be knowing it. It feels intrusive just to reach for his hand to comfort him, but that’s all you can do. It’s limp when you take it, but he doesn’t pull away. Just lets you run your thumb in soothing little circles over the top, and eventually, his fingers squeeze around the ones resting against his palm.

“Day after day, I rot from the inside out,” he continues. “I’m just a shell. If the agency eventually catches up to me, and I die, too...I’d count it as a blessing, really.”

“Seven…”

“I have no one left to care for, anyway. There’s no reason to stay.”

It hurts, it hurts so badly, but you push it down. You shouldn’t want this either; what you have is ruinous at the best of times, just sex and secrets and an unfulfilled desire for closeness between you, one or the other always clambering for as much as you’ll dare yourselves to take, always chasing. It’s toxic. Of course you’re no reason to stay.

You think of the brief moment in the café, when he’d looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time. Not hungrily; not as something to be thoroughly fucked and conquered—and not as an escape from the agency, as a dirty, dangerous secret. Just as a person, with natural intrigue. Curiosity. It had felt so tender, so human. You wonder if there’s a version of this story where he looks at you that way ever again. You wonder not if there’s a reason for him to stay, but a reason for you to go.

You desperately, desperately want there to be. But the seconds pass, and nothing convincing comes to mind. A _look_ isn’t a reason to uproot your life or further complicate his.

* * *

You hold on for dear life as Seven fucks you from below, his control lost somewhere after second thirty. You let him have you any way he wants, relishing in the feel of him against you, inside you, around you. Your eyes drift open and closed like you’re in a dream, hardly registering the sounds you’re both making, the way you purr when he marks you with his teeth.

* * *

“It’s getting late,” Seven says after some time, when the sky finally betrays the encroaching nightfall. He sounds pained, exhausted, staring through the windshield that’s blurred with steady rain. “You should...you should go.”

The thought stirs panic in you again, and you squeeze his hand. You figure that he’d forgotten you’d been holding it when he jumps, startled, blinking rapidly at your face and then down at your clasped fingers. You almost expect him to yank it away, to tell you to leave again. He should. Every final moment you spend with him here makes it more difficult to leave. After you do, you’ll never see him again. The thought rolls endlessly in your mind, but it’s a difficult concept to grasp, doesn’t feel real until it’s _time._

“Seven, I…”

Will it make a difference if you tell him that you love him? Probably not. So you don’t, though you say it over and over again in your mind as you bring your joined hands to your lips and press them to his knuckles. His eyes widen at that, at the lingering softness of it, the meaning behind the gesture clear as day. You won’t say it, but it’s there. Something about the way he leans closer to you makes you think that he feels it also.

_What could have been._

It’s all too natural to close the shrinking distance, to begin what has begun a hundred times before—and to finally end it, too.


End file.
